Sleepwalker (Nightwatcher #2)(59)

She thinks back to the trial; to what she learned about Jerry Thompson’s life leading up to his arrest. Raised in poverty by a single mother, abandoned by his deadbeat father, he had a couple of strikes against him right from the start.

Just like I did.

Even as she testified against him, somewhere in the back of her mind Allison found herself feeling sorry for Jerry Thompson. She knew where he came from because she’d been there herself.

Allison buries her face in her hands. She feels Mack’s arms around her; hears him murmuring comforting words, but all she can think is Good Lord, what have I done?

Her testimony helped to seal Jerry Thompson’s fate. She sent an innocent man to prison. Is it any wonder he killed himself?

And now . . .

Now the real killer has been lured from the shadows. He’s been inside this house, this haven where her sweet children play and sleep. He claimed his next victim right here, right under Allison’s nose, and the message is clear.

Watch your step . . . you might be next.

“Yes!” Jamie hisses gleefully, focused on the screen, where Allison sits with her head in her hands, now fully aware that her days are numbered.

Ah, but not in the way she thinks.

What I’m going to do to her is going to be so much more satisfying than what I did to Phyllis Lewis and Cora Nowak.

Those women didn’t go easily, not by any means. They suffered good and long and hard. That came to an end, as all good things must.

Allison will be different.

Her suffering will have no end—not in this lifetime. She’s going to be tortured for as long as she lives—preferably, to a ripe old age. She’s going to wake up every morning for the rest of her life to find herself all alone in an empty house full of memories.

Ah, but she’ll never truly be alone. I’ll always be there, watching her. Someday, maybe, I’ll take it upon myself to end her suffering, but until then. . .

Allison, who has so deftly made fresh starts twice in this lifetime—the first when she moved to New York, the second when she married Mack—has run out of chances to start over. Even the most resilient human being wouldn’t recover from what’s going to happen to Allison—what Jamie is going to do to her, what Jamie is going to take from her.

On the computer screen, Mack has his arms around his wife, comforting her.

Aw . . . aren’t they just so sweet together, the two lovebirds. He’s saying something into her hair, but his voice is too muffled to make out. He’s probably telling her that he’s there to protect her.

You just go ahead and keep saying that, Mack. I can’t wait to see the look on her face when she finds out what kind of man she really married.





Chapter Ten

Mack closes the bedroom door and then, after a minute, locks it.

Just in case.

It’s three in the morning, but Allison is still downstairs, despite his repeated attempts to get her to go to bed. He didn’t really want to leave her there, but he needs a few minutes alone, and he’d better not count on waiting until she’s asleep. That’s probably not going to happen tonight.

He goes back to the bed, picks up his briefcase, and opens it. For a long time, he stares at the object he’d stashed inside earlier, between layers of papers he’d brought home from the office.

What the hell am I doing with a gun?

He knows how to shoot, but it’s been a while. Years. As a kid, he went hunting with his uncle; as an adult, he did some target shooting with Ben, who wanted to learn how to use a gun after someone broke into his and Randi’s apartment. Randi never knew about it, though. Still doesn’t.

“She’d freak if she thought I had a gun in the house with the kids around,” Ben told Mack, who admitted that he didn’t think it was such a good idea himself.

“I keep it locked up,” Ben assured him. “But it’s good to know it’s there, just in case.”

That seemed to make more sense back when the Webers lived in the city than it does here in the suburbs—at least, until tonight.

“Whatever you do,” Ben whispered, slipping the gun to Mack in the kitchen, “don’t tell Allison where it came from. She’ll tell Randi, and I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Are you kidding? I’m not even going to tell her I have it. I’m not even sure I should take it.”

“You should,” Ben told him. “Like I said, it’s here just in case you need it.”

He thanked Ben and tucked the gun into his briefcase before Allison rejoined them in the kitchen.

Now, he gingerly takes the weapon from his briefcase and checks to make sure it’s loaded. Yep. Ready to go, just as Ben promised.

Lending the gun was entirely Ben’s idea, and he’d reminded a reluctant Mack, “You always were a better shot than I am.”

True. His uncle taught him well, as did the shooting range instructors. But clay pigeons—and even live ducks—are different from human beings. Mack isn’t sure he’s even capable of aiming at another person and pulling the trigger, and he said as much to Ben.

“What if your wife or your kids were in danger? Could you shoot someone to save their lives?”

Mack nodded grimly.

If it comes down to that—please, God, don’t ever let it come down to that—he’ll do whatever is necessary to protect his family.